The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6)

by Grace Callaway

  Now, after months of selling himself to countrified matrons and traveling ladies in search of a night’s companionship, he had no money and no prospects.

  Primrose came closer. “But why?”

  Because I’m a whore. I can’t take care of you. I can barely take care of myself.

  “Kitty and I are parting ways,” he said.

  “Because of me?”

  Unable to bear the pain shimmering in her wide eyes, he crouched. Tipped her little chin up. “No, little chick. It is a grown-up matter that has naught to do with you.”

  “Kitty says I’m too…”—her cherubic features tensed in concentration—“’spensive.”

  The ache in his chest intensified into a burn. Parting with Kitty wasn’t easy—their history was a long and knotty rope—but leaving Primrose to an uncertain fate was the most difficult thing he’d ever done. This was the demon he wrestled with. The one that crawled beneath his skin by day and injected venom into his dreams by night. The one that had delayed the inevitable dissolution of his partnership with Kitty.

  “It’s not you, Primrose,” he said firmly.

  She grabbed his hand just as he was pulling back. “Then take me with you. Please. I don’t want to stay with Kitty; I want to go with you!”

  Her plea lashed him like a cat-o’-nine-tails. He stood abruptly. “I can’t take you.”

  “Wh-why?”

  “Because… I just can’t.”

  If you take Primrose, I’ll send the constables after you. Kitty’s enraged vow rang in his head. Imagine what that will look like—a male whore stealing a young girl. You’ll be strung up by the mob before they get you to the gallows. I’m her guardian, and I’ve got the papers to prove it. I decide her fate—not you. If you don’t like the fact that I’m going to find her a nice home with some rich nobs, then take your bloody arse off. I don’t give a damn. But just try to take Primrose—and I’ll guarantee that’s the last thing you do.

  He knew Kitty meant every word—and that she was right. He had no legal standing to take Primrose. Not only that, he had no money, no means to look after a little girl.

  “I won’t be any trouble. I promise, Andrew! Please.”

  His hands curled in helpless frustration; he wanted to punch something.

  “I know you won’t. But where I’m going…”—he refused to dwell on his own grim future—“it’s no place for little girls.”

  “I don’t care! I don’t want to be with Kitty. I hate her, I hate her!”

  Primrose flung herself at his knees, sobbing. She’d never before voiced her feelings about her guardian. Or, indeed, said a negative word or showed any sign of temper. She was always a biddable, sunny child, and now he realized that she’d been too afraid to be anything else.

  The recognition ravaged him, but what could he do?

  Kitty has papers. And she’s right: you’re just a whore. His teeth ground together. What authority will entrust Primrose to you, even if you could take care of her?

  He placed a hand on the weeping girl’s head and managed a soothing tone. “There now. It won’t be so bad. You’ll miss me a bit, and then you’ll meet new friends.”

  As he said the words, fear shadowed his heart. He didn’t know for certain what lay in Primrose’s future. Kitty was steadfast in her resolution to sell the girl. The bawd had claimed that she would find a good home for Primrose, one where she would be well cared for.

  But he knew Kitty, knew that she was moved by money more than sentiment. And he feared that she would sell Primrose to the highest bidder rather than the one best for the child’s welfare. While he would give anything to believe that some rich, childless couple would end up adopting Primrose, he couldn’t ignore the grim possibilities. The ones who hunted in the streets of the Seven Dials, using sweets and coins to coax crossing sweeps and flower girls into dark alleys. The ones who he, himself, had learned to evade as a boy.

  Looking into Primrose’s upturned face, he was haunted by the possibilities. His gut twisted with guilt, rage, and hopeless despair. Yet what choice did he have? He could make a run for it with Primrose… but even if he could somehow evade the authorities, what sort of life could he offer her? One filled with pimps and whores, lechers and degenerates. She wouldn’t be any safer. And who’d take care of her while he was off fucking just to keep some leaky, crumbling roof over their heads?

  At least with Kitty’s plan, Primrose had a chance at a happy ending.

  “I don’t want new fr-friends. I want you,” Primrose said tearfully.

  He let out a breath and cupped one of her cheeks, its wetness soaking his palm. “You’re a bantling yet, and you’ll forget me in time,” he said. “But I will always remember you. And I’d prefer to remember our parting as one of smiles rather than tears.”

  “I’m not going to smile!” Primrose stamped her foot, flung the doll at him. “I h-hate you, and I’m glad I won’t ever see you again!”

  She raced out of the room.

  Slowly, he bent to pick up the grubby toy. He traced a fingertip over the dye-drawn smile, already fading. He thought of leaving it for Primrose—but she’d be better off without reminders of him.

  He tucked the doll on top of his belongings, closed the case, and made his way out.

  Chapter Nine

  Clad in a dressing gown, Andrew sat at the side of his bed, looking at the object he held in his hands. Years hadn’t been kind to his little rag companion. Her expression had faded, her button eyes chipped, and she’d lost some of her yellow yarn locks. She’d accompanied him on countless journeys, had been there during his darkest hours and rise to success, and he’d never been able to let her go. She was a reminder of all the roads he’d traveled to get where he was; just looking at her caused emotions to swirl up in him like sediment in disturbed waters.

  Right now, holding her in his palm, he felt… guilty.

  What the bloody hell was I thinking?

  The truth was he hadn’t been thinking. From his encounter with Primrose at the masquerade to the debacle at the plumassier’s a week ago, he’d been driven by a force that had nothing to do with rationality. It didn’t matter that his desire for her was intense, inexplicable, and irresistible: he had no excuse treating her like he had.

  As if it weren’t bad enough that he’d abandoned her when she was a girl, he’d now done it to her again—and Primrose deserved better. Hell, she deserved everything.

  Everything that you can’t give her.

  Telling himself that he’d left her for her own good didn’t ease his frustration. Nor did he find consolation in the fact that he would continue to protect her from afar as he’d done in the months preceding his disastrous intervention at the masquerade. Now that he’d held Primrose, kissed her, touched her… his gut clenched, his groin burgeoning with heat.

  He’d had sex with countless women, for profit and for pleasure; never once had he felt the way he had with Primrose. Never had he been so absorbed by another, body and mind. Never had another’s pleasure been so inexorably twined with his own.

  She’s not for you. Let her go.

  He yanked open the drawer of his bedside table, his touch gentling as he returned the doll to its rightful place. He got up, pacing the confines of his large and luxurious bedchamber. He’d purchased this grand house in Mayfair three years ago, and being in this room with its white marble fireplace, Aubusson carpets, and carved mahogany furnishings usually settled him. Reminded him of how far he’d come. He was no longer a whore living hand to mouth but a man who had businesses, properties, investments—everything he’d once dreamed of.

  For the first time, he wondered, Is it enough?

  “What the devil is the matter with me?” His muttered words echoed in the empty room.

  He dragged a hand through his hair. Then he rang for his valet.

  A while later, hot water lapped against his skin as he leaned back in a large copper tub. He’d spent far too many years surrounded by grime and dirt, and bathing was one
of his favorite rituals. Equipped with the latest plumbing innovations, the room had hot water piped directly to the brass taps on the side of the tub. Marble imported from Italy lined the walls and floor, and a fireplace kept the room steamy even as wind and rain blustered outside the window. Here in his sanctuary, he was protected from the winter storm… but not from his own inner tempest.

  He wasn’t fit for Primrose. He didn’t have a title or family; his reputation couldn’t be more notorious. There was not one respectable thing about him.

  I don’t care about any of those things. Her words haunted him.

  He rubbed his hands over his face. If she knew what he’d been—what he was—she’d undoubtedly be singing a different tune. Yet he couldn’t keep the devil from whispering in his ear: what if… what if…?

  The notion was unthinkable. She needed a husband whose status could protect her, give her the security she needed—the kind she hadn’t had for the first four years of her life. He wondered if she understood the origins of her fears. If she recalled any of those roaming childhood days, no anchor to safety, people floating in and out of her life… including him.

  The coward who’d left her behind.

  The old knots of guilt tightened; he shoved the thought from his head.

  Instead, he reached for the bar of translucent soap that he’d had his valet pick up for him. He brought it to his nose, sniffing. He’d recognized the distinctive garden scent of Pears soap on Primrose. In truth, he’d smelled the soap on too many ladies to count and never taken a particular liking to it—except on Primrose. On her, its fragrance mingled with the subtle feminine musk of her skin to form a rare and potent aphrodisiac.

  Beneath the water, he went hard.

  He ran the bar over his damp chest, the turgid muscles twitching at the slippery sensation. Perhaps his self-imposed celibacy was feeding into his inappropriate desire for Primrose. Since ending his last relationship two years ago, he hadn’t bedded anyone. Hadn’t wanted to. Being alone had seemed right somehow. His focus had been on work, success—making something of himself.

  Whenever the urge had arisen, he’d simply taken matters into his own hands. Looking back, he hadn’t frigged himself in weeks; perhaps he needed a release. Something to take the edge off. He fisted his cock, running the tight grip from root to tip.

  The fantasy he’d fought to suppress rose in his mind’s eye, and, this time, he let himself go back to the plumassier’s. Closing his eyes, he inhaled the fragrant skin of Primrose’s arched neck as he fondled her pussy. God, she was wet, her passion natural and generous. When he rubbed her bold little pearl, she gasped his name. He swallowed the breathless cries of her climax as his fingers delved deeper into her lushness.

  His biceps flexed, the sound of the rippling water transforming into the silken rustle of skirts being raised. He imagined himself going down on one knee—only right to worship such a treasure. He pictured what he had touched: slender, curved legs topped by a silky blonde nest. With his thumbs, he parted her cunny and swiped his tongue up her sweet pink slit.

  His chest surged, his fist jerking. He’d always enjoyed a woman’s pleasure, and the idea of eating Primrose’s pussy made his heart pound in his cock. He searched out her love-knot with his tongue, tickling it, egged on by her breathy pleas. Her fingers slid into his hair, holding him close as her cunny gushed honey into his ravenous mouth.

  He found her entrance with his middle finger, the tight little hole resisting as he eased in just the tip. Her lush passage squeezed his digit, his grip tightening on his cock to mimic that delight. He’d never had a virgin before, never thought he wanted one. Yet the idea of being Primrose’s first—her only—made him shudder with lust.

  His bollocks burgeoned, and he palmed them with his other hand. Water sloshed against the tub as he frigged himself harder, faster, fantasy blurring into animal need. He climaxed, releasing his seed in hot, rapid spurts.

  Panting, he rested his head against the tub’s edge and closed his eyes. He was sated but not satisfied. A part of him wondered if it would always be this way.

  ~~~

  “I think that does it, sir.” Kendrick, Andrew’s valet, stepped back, waiting for his approval.

  Andrew inspected himself in the cheval looking glass. He’d lured Kendrick away from a penurious viscount; as far as he was concerned, the valet was worth his weight in gold. As fastidious as the famed Beau Brummell, Kendrick ascribed to strict principles of simplicity and elegance. The navy frockcoat, shawl-collared waistcoat, and grey trousers fitted to Andrew’s form with nary a wrinkle. Beneath his cleanly shaven chin, the cravat was tied in a perfect Mathematical.

  “Yes, that will do—” At the knock, Andrew frowned and bade entry.

  A footman entered the dressing room. “Pardon the interruption, sir, but there is a young woman here to see you.”

  Andrew’s heart bumped against his ribs. “What is her name?”

  “She wouldn’t give it, sir, but she said that she is here on an urgent matter and that you told her to seek you out.”

  Would Primrose abandon all propriety… to see me?

  Joy, raw and ungoverned, jolted him into action. Before he knew it, he was striding out of his suite and down the steps to the drawing room. He entered… and stopped short.

  The woman standing by the window wasn’t Primrose.

  “Odette.” Reining in his disappointment, he frowned at his employee. “What are you doing here? I gave you specific instructions to stay with Miss Kent at all times…”

  He trailed off as premonition hit him like an icy fist.

  “A calamity has befallen, sir,” the French maid blurted. “Miss Kent—she has eloped!”

  Chapter Ten

  Staring out the window into the dark, pelting rain, Rosie thought, Did I make a mistake?

  It wasn’t the first time she’d questioned her decision during the last three days. She’d had her share of misgivings since embarking on the wild elopement with Daltry… and now it was too late.

  The firelight glinted off the gold band on her ring finger. Its selection, like everything about her marriage—from the travel arrangements to the ceremony over the anvil to the obtaining of present lodgings—had been conducted in a rush. The adage about marrying in haste entered her head; she shoved it out.

  What’s done is done. The bargain is sealed… or very nearly.

  As her gaze went to the door adjoining her and her new husband’s rooms, her apprehension surged higher. She missed her family with an acute ache, her price to pay for eloping. She’d never felt more alone than right now, in this room at a strange inn, waiting for her bridegroom to arrive. The way other debutantes talked about it, consummation was a necessary evil. Like tight-lacing a corset, one had to endure the pain in order to get the desired results.

  She knew, of course, that what went on the marital bower after the first time wouldn’t be all bad. In her family, she was surrounded by couples who clearly didn’t mind retiring together. And there were her own recent experiences of passion… her reckless interludes with Andrew butted into her thoughts. The way he’d kissed her, that shocking, ravishing pleasure she’d known in his arms… try as she might, she couldn’t forget those memories.

  So she used them to bolster her present resolve.

  Despite all the travails she’d endured—being a bastard, being dallied with and labelled a trollop, even being immortalized in that poem—nothing had hurt the way Andrew’s rejection had. His refusal to be with her had cut into a place so tender and deep that she knew she’d forever bear the scar. It made no sense why he could wound her so… but he had.

  Trust me, Primrose, he’d said.

  Her heart clenched. Andrew was like all the beaux in her past, only he’d treated her far worse. He’d raised her hopes, made her trust him, and for the first time, she’d wanted … oh, how she’d wanted…

  The one thing you’ll never have.

  Because she was a shameless wicked girl. And she deserved to be
tossed aside.

  In short, Andrew had proved what she’d known all along: love wasn’t for her.

  Her vision blurred, but she refused to let the tears fall. Having reached the lowest rung of her existence, she had nothing left to lose. To hell with Andrew and his ilk. Though Daltry might not be the man of her dreams, his position meant that she could spit on men like Andrew from her new perch at the top of the social ladder.

  I’m a countess now, she thought fiercely.

  Why didn’t she find any consolation in the fact?

  After the rough journey—she and Daltry had driven straight through, pausing only to change horses at coaching stops—they’d arrived in Gretna in the afternoon. After the blacksmith had married them, they’d ended up at the present inn. She’d promptly fallen into an exhausted sleep and awakened to find Daltry gone. Knowing her reprieve would be temporary, she’d stiffened her spine and forged ahead.

  She’d had a bath brought in. Without the assistance of a maid, she’d performed all twelve steps of her ablutions with the meticulousness of a warrior preparing for battle. Then she’d donned a night rail edged in lace and brushed her hair the requisite one hundred strokes before winding it into a single plait. The looking glass had reflected her crisply perfect ensemble, her porcelain-smooth countenance, her lifeless eyes.

  That had been two hours ago, and her groom still had not shown. Boisterous rumbling came from the tavern below. Was Daltry amongst the merry crowd? The innkeep had claimed that it was a local tradition for the bridegroom to purchase rounds for local revelers. The more drinks he bought, the more luck he’d supposedly bring to his new marriage—and the more he’d line the proprietor’s pockets, Rosie thought dryly. What fustian. Unfortunately, she couldn’t go downstairs unaccompanied to check if Daltry had fallen prey to such silly superstitions.

  With nothing better to do, she went over to the table by the fire. A cold collation had been laid out, yet her stomach was too knotted to eat. Instead, she poured herself a glass of wine… which tasted surprisingly good. So good, in fact, that she refilled her glass. A third glass settled her nerves, and she curled up on a chair, tucking her feet beneath her.